


Worry

by elisetales



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Cain Is A Slob, Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort Cain and Abel Style, Let Us Not Discuss Our Feelings, M/M, Romance, hamletmachine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:56:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisetales/pseuds/elisetales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set just after page 21, chapter 3 of Starfighter. Abel wants to know what's going on with Cain. Cain is determined to keep quiet and take his bruises like a man.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Worry

**Author's Note:**

> Set just after page 21, chapter 3 of Starfighter. Abel wants to know what's going on with Cain. Cain is determined to keep quiet and take his bruises like a man.

When Cain got back in that night he was bleeding from the mouth and clutching at his ribs, posture hunched. Abel’s eyes widened in alarm but he pressed his lips together, unsure whether or not he should say something. Cain didn’t like to be questioned, and Abel was sick of being told to shut up.

Cain didn’t offer anything and so Abel sat silently on the bed, closing the lid on his computer and folding his hands in his lap. “You’re early,” he remarked. Cain grunted in reply and peeled off his jacket and shirt.

Abel fiddled with his hands. “Everything okay?”

“Pshh,” came Cain’s dismissive reply.

Abel watched him strip down to his underwear and rip off his socks, throwing them across the room—Abel winced; he couldn’t stand Cain’s deplorable personal habits—before he got down on his haunches, wincing and letting out a low hiss of breath, and dug around in the tiny closet they both shared. He pulled out a dwindling bottle of vodka, along with a crumpled packet of cigarettes, and flopped down on the bed beside Abel, leaning his head back against the wall.

Abel stared sideways at him—Cain looked worse tonight than he usually did; more blood and bruises this time—and leaned slightly away from him. Cain smelled like grime and sweat and blood, familiar and intimidating, and Abel wasn’t sure he wanted to be near him right now.

“What?” Cain grumbled beside him, eyes closed and breathing shallow. “No one’s ever busted up that pretty face of yours? Turn the lights off if you don’t want to look at me.”

Abel hated it when Cain suddenly decided he wanted to be perceptive. “Cain,” he began, hesitantly. “That’s not why I—”

Cain cut him off with an abrasive ‘Tch’ and unscrewed the bottle of vodka, bringing it to his lips and drinking deeply. He set the bottle down between his legs and lit a cigarette, tossing the packet at his feet. Abel frowned at him.

“What happened to you?” he demanded, and—before Cain could cut him short—added, “And don’t tell me to shut up. You’re always coming back here looking like someone’s tried to shove you headfirst through a meat-grinder. What is going on with you? And don’t lie to me. Do I need to file a report or something?” He released a deep breath and watched as a muscle worked in Cain’s jaw.

“What’s it to you?” Cain eventually asked, ashing his cigarette over the side of the bed. Abel hissed at him and Cain smirked.

“Can you not do that?” Abel said angrily. “It’s not funny—you’re not the one who has to clean it up. And it’s _everything_ to me, Cain. You’re my partner. How are we ever going to work together if you don’t trust me enough to tell me what’s going on with you? Is someone hurting you?” Cain laughed at this, and Abel scowled.

“You’re such an ass sometimes, Cain,” he muttered, folding his arms across his chest and turning his face away from Cain and his choking cigarette smoke. “Don’t worry, that’ll be the last time I ever try and help you...”

“Oh, for fuck’s—come here and stop being such a fucking sook,” Cain growled and shifted over on the bed, putting his arm around Abel’s shoulders and dragging Abel into him.

Abel reluctantly let him and leaned his head against Cain’s shoulder, surrounded by the overwhelming scent of him.

“You really want to help me?” Cain asked then, gently touching the side of Abel’s face with his thumb.

“Yes, Cain,” Abel stiffly replied.

Cain brought the vodka bottle to his lips again and drank before letting out a long, laboured breath. “Just sit with me,” Cain said, and his voice sounded smaller to Abel, less marked with sarcasm. “Sit with me and look pretty.”

“But Cain—”

“You don’t need to worry about anything else,” Cain interrupted him, tone stronger now. “You let me handle that, alright? This is a fighter thing. All you need to know is that I’m gonna sort everything out, and me and you—we’re gonna be on top of all these fuckers; I can promise you that much. Me and you…” he murmured again, sounding strangely distant, and took another deep swig out of the bottle.

Abel peeked up at him, even more concerned now than he’d been before. Cain looked deep in thought. A thin trickle of blood ran from his temple down the side of his cheek, mingling with the sweat, and Abel furrowed his brow. “I think you might need stitches,” he whispered.

Cain hushed him, that same intense look on his face, and squeezed Abel’s shoulder. Abel fell silent again, uneasy as he rested his head against Cain’s shoulder. They sat there in the quiet for what felt like hours, Cain’s arm around him, his breathing low and fractured. If this was what it took to be on top, Abel thought, he wasn't so sure that's where he wanted them to be.    


End file.
